THE FABULIST--THE INFIDEL--THE COMIC WRITER
THE FABULIST.
La Fontaine, the fabulist, was buried by the side of Moliere, who died
long before him. He was born July 8th, 1621, at Chateau Thierry. His
father was keeper of the royal domains. While young, La Fontaine gave no
promise of his after distinction. His teachers declared him to be a
dunce. His father, who seems to have been an admirer of poetry,
persuaded him to attempt to write verses, but he could not make a rhyme.
Seeing at nineteen that he could not make a poet of his son, the old man
resolved to make a priest of him. After eighteen months of trial the
young man returned to society. His father then proposed that he should
take the keepership of the royal domains, and marry Marie d'Hericart,
the daughter of his friend. La Fontaine made no objection, though we
have no evidence that he loved the girl. She was both beautiful and
talented, however. The father still clung to the idea that his son could
write poetry, and with a kind of prophetic instinct.
When La Fontaine was twenty-two, a French officer visited him, who was a
great admirer of poetry, and who brought the poems of Malherbe. La
Fontaine became excited by the poetry, or the passionate recitation, and
for days did nothing but read and recite poetry. He commenced writing
odes in imitation of Malherbe, and when his father beheld his first
attempt, he cried for joy. The character of the poetry was certainly
different from that which afterward gave him his fame. He soon
discovered the secret of success. By studying the old authors, he
improved his taste, and acquired a disrelish for French literature. He
was very fond of the Italian authors, but not knowing Greek, he only
read the Greek authors through translations made by others. He was
exceedingly fond of Plato, and his favorite copy was entirely filled
with annotations.
La Fontaine remained for several years at Thierry, indolent, except in
his reading, and neglecting his business and his family. His "_Adonis_"
was written at this time. His good nature and simplicity are well
illustrated by an anecdote which is told of him. An officer was in the
constant habit of visiting his house, and his friends told him that the
reputation of Madame La Fontaine was compromised, and that nothing was
left but for him to challenge the officer to a duel. Now the fabulist
cared little for madame, and less for his own reputation in connection
with hers; but he believed his friends, and so after a great effort
shook off his indolence, and early one morning went to the officer, who
was in bed, and demanded that he should rise at once and go out to
mortal combat. The officer rose and followed him, and easily disarmed
him. An explanation followed. The friends of La Fontaine had been joking
him, and when the officer declared that he would never cross the
threshold of Thierry again, La Fontaine told him that thenceforth he
should come more frequently than ever.
But though Madame La Fontaine was guiltless in this affair, her
character was by no means above reproach. She was giddy and thoughtless,
and fond of the society of gentlemen, and made a poor wife for the
poet. But she had an excuse. La Fontaine bestowed upon her no attention,
deserted her for weeks together, and was guilty of amours with other
women. He possessed a wretched memory, and was given to astonishing
absences of mind. The duchess of Bouillon left him one morning walking
in the open air, with a favorite book in his hand. At night he was still
there, though it had been raining hard for some time.
His acquaintance with the duchess of Bouillon was of great service to
him. Had it not been for her he would probably never have left Thierry.
She was at that time in the country, being disgraced and exiled from
court. She was gay, witty, and fond of poetry. Chancing to read some
lines of La Fontaine, she sent for him, and at once saw his genius, and
suggested that he should write tales and fables. When the duchess was
allowed to return to Paris she took La Fontaine with her, and he was at
once introduced into the most brilliant society. The duchess of Mazarin,
sister to the duchess of Bouillon, was also his warm friend; and with
the friendship of the two sisters he had no lack of attention. He became
acquainted with Moliere, Boileau, and Racine, and was warmly attached to
them until death invaded the circle.
The circles which La Fontaine frequented were amused by his great
eccentricities. He was often seized with his absences of mind, and great
sport was made of him. But Moliere was in the habit of saying at such
times, "The good man will take a flight beyond them,"--a prediction
which proved perfectly true, for the name of La Fontaine will live
longer than that of any of his companions.
Boileau and Racine remonstrated with La Fontaine for having separated
from his wife. Simple as he was, he believed what they told him--that it
was his duty to return to her. He very soon came back, and when he was
asked why he came back so soon, he replied, "I did not see her!"
"How," they asked, "was she from home?"
"Yes," he replied; "she was gone to prayers, and the servant not knowing
me, would not let me stay in the house until she returned."
The fabulist and his wife were so extravagant and careless in their
habits, that in a very short time the property of La Fontaine was wasted
away. Foquet, the minister, pensioned him, and he remembered him always
after. When Foquet was banished, La Fontaine solicited his pardon, but
the king was incapable of forgiving an enemy, and changed the sentence
to solitary confinement for life. The succeeding minister took away La
Fontaine's pension, as might have been expected.
In 1664 La Fontaine published his first collection of fables, and it
gave him immediately the very highest rank as a fabulist. Shortly after,
he published a tale entitled "_Psyche and Cupid_." He was now without
money and a home. The duchess of Orleans added him to her suite, and
gave him a pension. She soon died, however, and he was again left
homeless. A woman by the name of de la Sabliere now invited him to her
house, and with her he lived the next twenty years. She was a woman of
great refinement and taste, but was singularly situated. She lived apart
from her husband, and had her lover. She gave parties which the most
distinguished men in France attended, and La Fontaine was very happy
while in her house. He was oppressed by no care or anxiety, and had
nothing to do but to read and write when it suited him. He wrote
several operas, and actually fell asleep during the first performance of
one of them at the theater!
In 1683 he was elected a member of the French Academy. He had forgotten
his old friends at Thierry, and indeed did not know his own son. He
attended the funeral of a friend, one day, and ten days after it had so
completely escaped his memory, that he called to visit the man. He was
lionized, greatly to his displeasure. Attending one day at a dinner
given by somebody who cared nothing for his genius, but wished the
_eclat_ that would result from entertaining a great man, La Fontaine
talked little, eat very heartily, and when dinner was over, got his hat
to go. The host remonstrated: "The distance is short--you will be too
early," he said. "I'll take the longest road," replied La Fontaine.
After twenty years of easy existence, La Fontaine was suddenly deprived
of his home. Madame de la Sabliere had been living all this time with
her lover. He now deserted her. At the same time her husband was
deserted by his mistress, which so affected him that he took poison and
died. These events had so great an effect upon Madame de la Sabliere
that she also died.
The duchess of Bouillon was now in England, and she invited La Fontaine
to join her there; but he was now too old, and could not undertake such
a journey. Madame d'Hevvart, the wife of a rich man, gave him an
apartment in her house, where he remained during the rest of his days.
He was now getting infirm, and the Jesuits turned their eyes toward him.
He had thus far lived without a profession of religion, and a life of
loose morality. The Jesuits cared little for his want of good morals,
but in many of his books he had ridiculed the church and the clergy. It
was important, therefore, to make him confess his sins. Father Poujet, a
shrewd and subtle Jesuit, was sent to converse with him. In a very short
time he contrived to insinuate himself into the confidence of the simple
poet. He acknowledged, one after another, the truths of religion, and he
was called on to make expiations and a public confession. He was easily
persuaded to burn his operas, and to give up all the profits resulting
from the sale of a volume of his worst tales; but he rebelled against
public confession. Three doctors of the Sorbonne were sent to him, and
they argued long and well, but to no purpose. An old man who was angered
by their bull-dog pertinancy, said, "Don't torment him, my reverend
fathers; it is not ill will in him, but stupidity, poor soul; and God
Almighty will not have the heart to damn him for it."
That La Fontaine finally made some kind of a confession, there is little
doubt; but that he made the shameful confession which Catholic writers
declare he did, no one now believes. He was probably worn out with their
entreaties, and came to a compromise with them.
He added nothing to his reputation after this, but rather detracted from
it. He lived very quietly and devotedly, and died in 1695, in the
seventy-fourth year of his age. It was found after his death that he was
in the habit of mortifying himself with a shirt of sackcloth.
La Fontaine was unquestionably the greatest fabulist of his or any other
time, and he has been exceedingly popular throughout France. His tales
and fables and light poems are full of beauty and grace. But we cannot
speak highly of their morality. They are, like almost all French
literature, corrupt. They took their character from the times, and have
had a bad influence upon later generations of France.
THE INFIDEL.
Perhaps no man has existed in the past history of France, who has had
such a wonderful influence over succeeding generations, as Voltaire. I
name him the _infidel_, not because his infidelity was the most
prominent characteristic, but because he is known more widely in America
for his scoffing skepticism. The effect of Voltaire's skeptical writings
is more perceptible in Paris than in the provinces, but in the capital
an amount of infidelity obtains which is perfectly frightful; and even
among those who frequent the church, and sometimes ostentatiously parade
an affection for it, this skepticism fills the intellects. No one writer
of past years unsettled the already shallow-rooted faith of the people
to such an extent as Voltaire. Yet he was by no means the man many of
his enemies suppose him to have been. No mere scoffer or reviler of the
bible could have obtained such an influence in France as Voltaire did.
He was really a great man, and gained the affections of the people by
his advocacy of liberty. It is more than probable that under a system of
religion as pure as now exists in America, Voltaire would never have
been an infidel. The condition of the Catholic church in France, in his
time, was sufficiently shocking to have startled every intelligent mind
into skepticism. It was filled with hypocrites and knaves, who professed
to be filled with the spirit of God, but who in reality were very
sensual and wicked men. The slightest independence in religious opinions
was punished by exile or imprisonment. How could a man with an
independent intellect succumb to such a church? And was it not very
natural for it to jump from belief to infidelity? This should be borne
in mind when we estimate the character of Voltaire.
Voltaire's real name was Francois-Marie Arouet, and he was born at
Chatenay, on the 20th of February, 1694. His father was a notary, and
had a lucrative situation. His mother was of noble extraction. When a
babe, he was so feeble that it was not expected he would live. An abbe
in the family educated him, and it is a singular fact, that when he was
a boy, a deistical ode was put into his hands. He entered the college of
Louis-le-Grand, and his, talents rendered him a general favorite with
the teachers. One of his tutors, however, in a religious argument found
himself so incompetent to defend the Catholic church, that in his anger
he exclaimed, "You will become the Coryphaeus of Deism."
On leaving college the young man entered into Paris society. Louis XIV.
was in his dotage, and at this time paid little attention to men of
genius. Arouet soon became popular in the highest circles for his wit
and genius. He resolved, much against his father's will, to devote
himself to a literary life. One of the first acts of the young man was
to fall in love with a rich but desperate woman's daughter, and amid
much opposition he by stealth kept up an intercourse with her; but he
was at last obliged to give way before so much ill will. His father was
very angry with him--so much so, that he consented at last to study the
law. He entered a law-office in Paris, and pursued his studies with
industry. He frequented society, but he could not content himself with
the prospect of an attorney's life. He beseeched his father to release
him from his course of study, and he consented that he should return to
the country-seat of a friend, and consider the matter. Here Arouet found
a large library, and fed upon it. He staid there until the death of the
king, when he went up to Paris to witness the joy of the people. Some
verses were printed which were attributed to him, and he was instantly
thrown into the Bastille. He passed a year in prison, without society,
books, or pen and ink.
While imprisoned, the idea occurred to him of writing a great French
epic, and he actually composed in his dungeon two cantos of it, which
afterwards were not altered. The poem was called "_Henriade_," and was
regarded with admiration by his contemporaries.
Arouet was finally set free, his innocence being satisfactorily proved.
He now issued the tragedy of "_Oedipus_," which had a great success. This
success was only deserved in part. He still later wrote several letters
upon the tragedies of Sophocles, which gave him at once a high position
as a man of learning, and as a critic. His life alternated between work
and pleasure. He quarreled with Rosseau about this time, and a little
later visited England. He remained away from France three years. Upon
his return to Paris he again brought out plays, and was everywhere
admired and worshiped. But the priesthood hated him.
He now bought the small estate of Voltaire, and took the name for his
own, as was customary at that time. His writings occasionally made light
of religion and the priests, and scoffed at their practices. An actress
in Paris was refused the rites of burial by the priests, because of her
life and profession. Voltaire thereupon wrote her apotheosis, and in
consequence was obliged to conceal himself for several months in a
little village in Normandy. When it was safe for him to emerge from his
retirement, he wrote a book on England, which raised another storm about
his head. He spoke too highly of English liberty in religious matters,
and took occasion to speak sarcastically of all religion. The volume was
burned in public, and Voltaire concealed himself in the country.
He now retired to the house of Madam du Chatelet in the country, where
he remained for several years. She was a woman of fine intellect, but a
harsh nature, and worshipped Voltaire. He here wrote several plays;
labored at his essay "_On the Manners and Spirit of Nations_;" collected
materials for his "_History of the Age of Louis XIV_;" and wrote the
famous "_Pucelle d'Orleans_." It was while at this house that Voltaire
commenced the celebrated correspondence with Frederick the Great. Each
had the highest admiration for the other. The great king wrote to him as
follows:
"See in me only, I entreat you, a zealous citizen, a somewhat
skeptical philosopher, but a truly faithful friend. For God's
sake write to me simply as a man; join with me in despising
titles, names, and all exterior splendor."
Voltaire replied; "This is a command after my own heart. _I know not how
to treat a king_; but I am quite at my ease with a man whose head and
heart are full of love for the human race."
The two men met at Cleave. The king had been very anxious for Voltaire
to visit the court of Prussia, but he would not without Madame du
Chatelet; and Frederic cared not for the acquaintance of a French court
lady. Some time after this, Voltaire was sent on a secret mission to
Prussia, and startled Frederic by his sudden appearance. He tried to
persuade him to take up his abode with him, but the philosopher would
not consent. He sighed for his home, and the applause of a Parisian
audience.
He brought out other plays, which were well received. A minister dying
at this time, who had been a bitter enemy of his, he ventured more
boldly before the world. He sought to be elected a member of the
Academy. A violent opposition arose. He had fought his enemies to the
death, never sparing sarcasm or ridicule, and these things could not be
forgotten. He lost his election, but was compensated by the success of a
new tragedy, which set all Paris into transports of delight.
He was chosen by the duke de Richelieu to negotiate with the king of
Prussia in reference to a treaty. He was honored in the highest degree
by Frederic--was feted, praised, and made as much of as if he had been a
king. He succeeded in his negotiations, manifesting great subtlety and
tact. He returned to the house of Madame du Chatelet. For a time he
lived either here or at Paris--until Madame du Chatelet died, when he
went to Paris to spend all his time. He was deeply affected by the death
of the only woman he ever loved with sincerity. He propitiated the
mistress of Louis XV.--Madame Pompadour--and was appointed to a place in
the court; and was also made historiographer of France. Soon after, he
was elected a member of the Academy, thus triumphing over his old
enemies at last. For a time he sacrificed his manly independence, and
was not unlike any other court flatterer. He had a rival in Crebillon;
and disgusted with the state of things, he accepted the invitation of
Frederic, and made him a visit. He was received with the greatest joy by
the monarch--who even kissed the poet's hand in a transport of
admiration.
The king's cook awaited his orders when he wished to eat in his own
rooms, and the king's coach was ready for him when he would ride. He
spent two hours each day in studying with the king, correcting his
works, etc. etc. He was tempted by so much attention to accept of the
king a pension and the office of chamberlain; and was obliged to resign
his places at the French court. He wrote to a friend in France:
"How can I forget the barbarous manner with which I have been
treated in my own country? You know what I have gone through.
I enter port after a storm that has lasted thirty years."
He had a salary of twenty thousand francs for himself, and four thousand
for his niece, who bitterly opposed the acceptance of Frederick's offer.
She prophesied that in the end it would be his death. He went at work
correcting his tragedies and writing new plays. He soon thought he
discovered deceit in the king, and learned that he was despotic. The
keen remarks of each were treasured up. Voltaire heard from a friend
that the king had said of him: "I shall not want him more than a year
longer--one squeezes the orange and throws away the peel."
The remark caused him much sorrow. The king also treasured up a remark
sarcastically made by Voltaire, which was as follows: "When I correct
the royal poems I am washing the king's dirty linen." They soon lost
their attachment for each other. Voltaire watched in vain for a way to
escape from Prussia. At last it came, and he was once more a free man in
Switzerland.
He went into a Protestant region, where there were no Catholics, and
bought him a pretty estate, and determined to live in complete
independence. Persecution however followed him here, and he took up his
abode in a retired part of France. He wrote his "_Encyclopedia_" which
was severely condemned. In 1788, in his eighty-fourth year, he returned
to Paris, bringing with him a newly-written tragedy. His new life in
Paris was not good for him, and he died at the end of May.
This was the man who, in the years that followed him, ruled, as it were,
the intellect of Paris and France. He was a mighty man, and the fact
that he was bitterly persecuted, gave him a hold upon the sympathies of
succeeding generations. The conduct of the church toward him was
shameful, and he made the sad mistake of rejecting all religion, the
true as well as the false.
His plays and writings abound with shocking sentiments, and some of his
writings are exceedingly coarse. These scoffs, coming from an ordinary
man, would have wrought little harm; but from the great Voltaire, who
was worshiped by the French people, they possessed an astonishing power
to work iniquity. A New Englander can scarcely credit his senses in
Paris when he finds the estimation in which Voltaire and his writings
are held by a vast class of the most intelligent Parisians. In religious
America he is regarded as a monster of iniquity; in France as a great
poet, philosopher, and advocate of human liberty.
* * * * *
THE GREAT COMIC WRITER.
The place where Moliere, the great comic writer of France, lived in
Paris, was pointed out to me one day while near the Rue St. Honore; and
I have often noticed on one of the prominent streets a very neat
monument to the memory of the great man. It is a niche, with two
Corinthian columns, surmounted by a half-circular pediment, which is
richly ornamented. A statue of Moliere is placed in the niche in a
sitting posture, and in a meditative mood. In front of the columns on
each side, there are allegorical figures--one representing his serious,
the other his comic plays. Each bears a scroll which contains--one, his
comic plays, arranged in chronological order; and the other, his serious
plays, arranged in like manner. The basement is beautifully sculptured.
The inscriptions are as follows: "_A. Moliere. Ne a Paris, le 15
Jauvier, 1622, et mort a Paris, le 17 Fevrier, 1673_." The monument is
over fifty feet in height, and cost one hundred and sixty-eight thousand
francs. It was erected in 1844, with a great deal of attendant ceremony
when it was finished.
Moliere is one of the names of which France is justly proud, and in
Paris his memory is half-worshiped. Not to know him well, would be in
the eyes of a Parisian the sure sign of intolerable stupidity. He was
the greatest comic writer of France, and perhaps of the world. It will
not be out of place, therefore, to give a slight sketch of his life.
The real name of Moliere was Jean Baptiste Poguelin, and he was born in
a little house in the Rue St. Honore, in the year 1622. His father was a
carpet-furnisher to the king, and he was brought up to the same business
by his father. His mother died when he was only ten years old, and his
father was left with a large family of children to educate. The boy
passed his early days in his father's warehouse, but his grandfather was
accustomed to take him often to the play-house, where he listened to
some of the great Corneille's plays, to his thorough delight. Thus in
his youth, even while a mere boy, the taste for the drama was created.
His father at one time remonstrated with the old man for taking the boy
thus early to the theater, and asked, "Do you mean to make an actor of
him?"
Nothing daunted by this question, the grandfather replied, "Yes, if it
please God to make him as good a one as Bellerose"--who was the best
tragic actor of that time.
The boy was discontented as he grew older, and panted for knowledge. As
he contemplated a life given up to trade, he grew melancholy. He was
finally sent as an out-student to the college of Clermont, and afterward
to the college of Louis-le-Grand, which was under the direction of the
Jesuits. The young prince of Conti was at school at that time. Gassendi,
the private tutor to the natural son of a man of fortune, named
Chapelle--the son at that time at school with Poguelin--discovered the
boy's talents, and taught him the philosophy of Epicurus, and gave him
lessons in morals. Another of his fellow-students was one de Bergerac,
of fine talents but wild disposition. Chapelle and de Bergerac became
afterward distinguished.
As soon as he was through college, Poguelin entered into the king's
service as _valet de chambre_, and made the journey with his majesty to
Narbonne. After this he studied law in Orleans, and commenced practice
in Paris as an advocate. He here became associated with a few friends in
getting up a series of plays. The age was one full of enthusiasm for the
stage, and plays were enacted upon the stage and off of it, in private
circles. The club of young men who acted together for the amusement of
their friends, were so successful that they resolved to take to the
public stage; and as was the custom, each took an assumed name.
Poguelin assumed the name of Moliere, a name which he immortalized, and
by which he was ever afterward known.
His father was very much displeased with his course, and sent a friend
to persuade him to relinquish it, but the deputy was so fascinated by
Poguelin's acting, that he became a convert to him, and was not fitted
to urge the arguments of the father. The family for a time refused in a
manner to acknowledge their son, being ashamed of his new profession;
but they are now known only through him.
The masters under whom Moliere principally studied were Italians, and he
imbibed a love for the Italian comic art. He also read the Spanish
comedies, and learned to admire them.
Moliere and his little band left Paris for the provinces. The times were
unpropitious, for the wars of the Fronde at that time made the whole
country a scene of confusion and danger. They had visited Bordeaux, and
were protected by the governor of Guienne. While here, Moliere wrote and
brought out a tragedy, which had so poor a success that he gave up
tragedy. After a short provincial tour he returned to Paris, and renewed
the acquaintance of the prince of Conti. The latter caused Moliere and
his fellows to bring out plays at his palace. But Paris was too full of
strife, and Moliere went to Lyons, where he wrote and brought out his
first comedy, "_L'Etouedi_." It met with a great success. There is an
English translation, entitled "Sir Martin Marplot." The next piece was
entitled "_Depit Amourex_," and its genuine humor gave it a fine
reputation.
The moral character of Moliere at this time was exceedingly bad. The
times were such that a band of players found every temptation before
them. The French biographers give an account of some of his
"gallantries," but they only lead the reader to feel disgust rather than
admiration. That plays written by such a man, and during times which
corrupted the whole people, should be pure, one could not expect.
Moliere's plays, therefore, bear the same character, in this respect, as
all the great performances of authors of France in those and succeeding
times. They were altogether loose in their morals.
The company of players were invited to Paynas by the prince of Conti,
who was staying there at the time. They acted before him, and Moliere
wrote several little interludes for the special amusement of the prince,
which were afterward the ground-work of some of his best comedies. The
prince was so pleased with the comedian, that he invited him to become
his secretary. He declined, but whether from love of comedy, or fear of
the prince, we do not know. The prince possessed an awful temper, and
actually killed his former secretary by throwing the tongs at him.
Paris at length became more quiet, and Moliere turned his steps toward
it. He obtained the protection of the king's brother, was introduced to
the king, and obtained permission to establish himself in the capital.
There was a rival theater at the Hotel de Bourgogue, at which
Corneille's tragedies were played. Moliere and his company acted before
Louis XIV. and his mother, in the Louvre. The play was that of
"Nicomede," and the success was very great. The play was a tragedy, but
Moliere knew very well that they could not rival the other
tragedy-theater, in that line; and he therefore introduced the custom
that night of concluding a tragedy with a farce. The farce acted was one
of his own, and was so well received that the custom was ever after
kept up. The company finally settled down in the Palais Royal, which the
king had granted them.
The next poem which Moliere wrote and brought out, was aimed at a
society of men, including many of the most talented in Paris, called the
"_Society of the Hotel de Rambouillet_." The peculiarities of this
society were too ridiculous to describe at this day, and Moliere's
comedy, which was aimed at them, was wonderfully successful. Paris at
once was in an uproar of laughter, and in the midst of the piece an old
man rose in the theater, crying out, "Courage, Moliere; this is a true
comedy!"
The next piece was entitled "_Sganarelle_," and although it was quite
successful, it was inferior to those which preceded it. Moliere now
tried tragedy, but with no success. It was not his _forte_. He returned
to comedy, and brought out a piece entitled "_L'Ecoledes Maris_," which
achieved a brilliant success.
At this time Foquet was the minister of finance, and gave a fete in
honor of the king; indeed he entertained the king at his villa. He was
in some respects another Cardinal Wolsey, in his magnificence and
recklessness of display. Foquet loved a beautiful girl, who rejected
him. He discovered that the girl loved the king, and that the passion
was reciprocated. In his anger he charged it upon the girl, who ran with
the secret to the king. Louis was resolved on the downfall of his
minister. The fete took place upon a scale of almost unparalleled
splendor. Le Brun painted the scenes, La Fontaine wrote verses for it,
and Moliere prepared a ballet for the occasion. The king concealed his
wrath at this display of wealth, and very much enjoyed Moliere's
amusements; and suggested a new comedy to the comedian, while talking
with him at the minister's. Foquet soon fell.
Moliere was by this time so distinguished that he had troops of friends
among the wise, learned, and great. Among the warmest of them was the
great Conde, who was always pleased with his society. He told the
comedian that he feared to trespass by sending for him on peculiar
occasions, and therefore requested him to come to him whenever he had a
leisure hour; and at such times he would dismiss all other matters, and
give himself up to pleasant conversation. The king invariably defended
Moliere. A duke once attacked him, and the king reproved the noble. He
still attended to his duties as _valet de chambre_ to the king, and was
constantly subjected to annoyance on account of his profession. The
other officers of the king's chamber would not eat with him, such was
their petty meanness and pride. The king determined to give them a
lesson, so one morning he addressed Moliere as follows:
"I am told you have short commons here, Moliere, and that the
officers of my chamber think you unworthy of sharing their
meals. You are probably hungry; I got up with a good appetite.
Sit down at that table where they have placed my
refreshments." The king sat down with him, and the two went
heartily at a fowl. The doors were opened, and the most
prominent members of the court entered. "You see me," said
Louis, "employed in giving Moliere his breakfast, as my people
do not find him good enough company for themselves."
From this time Moliere had no trouble on the score of treatment from his
fellow _valets_.
Everywhere except at court, before this, Moliere was treated with the
greatest consideration on account of his brilliant genius. He was
intimate with Racine and with Boileau. The story for a time was believed
that Moliere married his natural daughter, but it has been proved a
falsehood. He became attached to the sister of Madeleine Bejaet, a very
witty and graceful woman, and married her; but he soon found that she
was too fond of admiration to make him happy. She was coquettish, and
without principle, and though Moliere bore with her long, they at length
separated. He said: "There is but one sort of love, and those who are
more easily satisfied, do not know what true love is."
Moliere went on with the management of his theater, and writing and
bringing out new plays. One of them--"_L'Ecole des Femmes_"--was
translated and amended into the English by Wycherly, and was altogether
more licentious in plot than in the original language. It was very
popular in England, but not so much so in France.
The next piece of Moliere's was entitled "_Impromptu de Versailles_,"
and was written at the command of the king. The king and his courtiers
were accustomed to take parts in the ballets in those days, and Louis
and his court took parts in the ballets of Moliere's construction. The
soldiers who guarded the king were accustomed to go into the theater
free. They took up a large space, and Moliere represented his loss to
the king, who abolished the privilege. The soldiers were very angry, and
the next night they cut the door-keeper to pieces with their swords, and
forced their way into the house. Moliere made them a speech, and peace
was restored. The king offered to punish with severity the lawless
soldiery, but Moliere requested him not to do so, and the new order was
ever after obeyed without trouble.
One of his next acts was to hold up to ridicule, in a comedy, the
medical faculty. The condition of the medical art at that time was such
that it richly deserved ridicule. But no man can thus attack great
bodies of men without making enemies, and Moliere had them without
number.
The comedian was now at the height of his prosperity, and still he was
unhappy. Separated from his wife, whose conduct was now shameful, he had
no domestic happiness. He spent much of his time at his country-house at
Antenil, where an apartment was always kept for his old school-fellow,
Chapelle, for whom he always retained a warm affection. He was often
alone, and preferred solitude, shutting himself away from society. A
supper was once given by him to all his brother wits. He alone was
indisposed, and as he took no wine or animal food, he went early to bed,
leaving his friends merry over their wine. At last they grew so affected
by the wine they had drank, that they were ready to follow a leader into
any absurdity. Chapelle was, when tipsy, always melancholy, and on this
occasion he addressed his companions in a strain of bathos which, had
they been free from the effects of wine, would only have excited their
laughter. But now they were in the same condition as himself. Chapelle
finally wound up by proposing that they all proceed to a neighboring
river, and end life together by plunging into it. He expiated upon the
heroism of the act, and the immortality it would give them, and they all
agreed to it. Moliere overheard them quitting the house, and suspecting
something wrong, followed them. He came up with them upon the bank of
the river, when they besought him also to die with them. He professed to
be struck with the heroism of their plan, but demanded that it should be
executed in the broad day. They fell in with his suggestion, and
returned to the house. Of course, the next morning they were ashamed to
look upon each other's faces.
Moliere wrote many new plays and farces, but his days were fast drawing
to a close. He was overworked, and took little care of his health. The
king asked him one day what he did with his doctor. "We converse
together," he replied--"he writes prescriptions, which I do not take,
and I recover." He had a weak chest, and a constant cough.
About this time his friends persuaded him to invite his wife again to
his house, and she urged him to a more generous diet, but he grew the
worse for it. He now brought out a new play, and could not be prevented
from taking a prominent part in it. On the fourth night he was much
worse, and friends gathered around him, beseeching him not to go on the
stage longer. He replied, "There are fifty poor workmen whose bread
depends on the daily receipts. I should reproach myself if I deprived
them of it." But while making others laugh, he was actually dying. He
was, while in the ballet, seized with a fit of coughing, and burst a
blood-vessel. A priest was sent for, but such was their antipathy to the
comedian, that it was long before one could be found willing to attend
him. He expired with but few friends around him. Two sisters of charity
whom he had been in the habit of receiving in his house while they were
collecting alms during Lent, remembered his generosity, and attended his
death-bed.
The archbishop of Paris refused the rites of burial to the body. His
wife was much moved by this act, and exclaimed, "What! refuse burial to
one who deserves that altars should be erected to him!" She ran to the
king, who being offended by some indiscretion of hers, refused to
interfere in the matter, though he privately ordered the archbishop to
take off the interdiction. When the funeral took place, a mob of low
people, excited by their priestly advisers, attended, intending to offer
insult to the body, but the comedian's widow propitiated them by
throwing a thousand francs among them. We see by this shameful treatment
of a man whom France honored, and who, though not irreproachable in
character, was as pure as those who persecuted him.
Moliere was almost universally honored--always excepting those bodies
which he had ridiculed. He was very generous, and would, long before his
death, have given up acting on the stage, were it not for his companions
whose subsistence depended upon his appearance with them.
Very many years after, the eulogy of Moliere was made the subject of a
prize; and when it was delivered, two persons by the name of Poguelin
were honored by a seat on the stage.
At his death the band of comedians was broken up. His widow received a
pension, in after years, of one thousand livres. But one of his children
survived, and that one had no issue--so the race soon became extinct.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Paris: With Pen and Pencil, by David W. Bartlett